Enjoy

It doesn’t matter what you look like; people get used to it. So used to it, in fact, that eventually they no longer see you as ill. Certainly not if you try to be independent rather than sitting around like a helpless little bird waiting to be rescued.

With great effort, she had written it down letter by letter; it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to leave behind a few more words worth reading. It wouldn’t be long now, just a little while longer...

There was a brief knock at the door, which was then flung wide open. There he stood with a tray full of food. The smell increases her nausea. What was the point of eating when her bowels had stopped working and her stomach was no longer cooperating, not to mention the fact that swallowing was becoming increasingly difficult.

"Enjoy", he said.

He stared at her face and then let his gaze drift over her emaciated body.
"It would be good if you ate a bit more," he remarked in a gruff voice.

She didn’t bother to reply. What did it matter what she said? He wouldn’t believe her anyway. He stood there for a moment without saying a word, nodded, and walked out the door.

She had made up her mind, and no one could dissuade her. She left her food untouched; she could put the little energy she had left to better use by leaving her final message. No, it wouldn’t be ‘Enjoy’, because there was nothing to enjoy. Enjoyment was the last thing she had done. Life had always been a struggle. A struggle to live, to stand up for the rights of others, a struggle to be who she was. Long live Life, she wrote above her name.
Anyone who saw it would undoubtedly think of an advert for a sunny and better place and of the love of life she had and wanted to share.

What she felt was bitterness. The unfairness of life. The diary was far from full, but there was nothing left she wanted or could share. Life had long since become unbearable. She knew she would never paint again, and with her last ounce of strength she wrote on the blank page: Never again...

_24-5-2026